Mallory's Adventure
by PanFried
Summary: Mallory breaks into a wizard's home and finds herself in the middle of a war. A bit unfortunate. Especially since the glitter bursting out of her nose turns out to be the product of neglected "magic".


**Mallory's Adventure  
>Chapter One: The House<strong>

My parents are fighting. That doesn't matter, though, because in this household a fight establishes your affection for one another. Take mum and dad, for example. Mum left the last bottle of milk out on the bench last night, and now my dad can't have his morning bowl of Cheerios because the milk's all sour and shitty. This depresses my dad because Cheerios make him cheery. Now he's grumpy.

So, dad's calling mum incompetent or something. What he's really doing, though, is wishing her a jolly morning.

And mum's calling dad a pedantic old geezer. That's a smacking kiss on the cheek, I'd say.

I've been sitting on the stairs, which are adjacent to the kitchen, listening in on their argument like a creep. I do this a lot. I like knowing how a conversation plays out when I'm not influencing it. Maybe that makes me nosy. But I don't really give a shit, to be honest.

When mum slams a cupboard door shut I decide to make my presence known. Hopping up, I swagger into the kitchen. I even smirk a little because I can act like a cocky bastard sometimes. I shouldn't, though, because pride cometh before the fall. So usually I end up eating dirt or something.

"Good morning, chumps!" I announce, flinging the door open. I like to make a dramatic entrance in the morning because it sets the scene for the rest of the day. Makes you feel a bit important, which is nice. Mostly, though, my entrance is left unappreciated because my parents are frowning at each other from opposite ends of the table; my dad moodily eating his inferior toast, and mum flicking through the paper without looking at the pages. I love my parents.

I express said love by slapping my dad over his bald head as I walk past him toward the fridge. It's not a heavy slap, or anything. Just a friendly smack to the cranium. It's healthy, I promise. Kicks the brain into action.

Dad only half-heartedly flaps a hand about in acknowledgement, as if swatting away a fly. He's too preoccupied wooing my mother with a scowl to pay attention to me. I understand.

I was hoping he'd notice my chosen attire for the day, though. I got dressed in the dark earlier this morning (about 5am, if you're interested – I'm what's commonly called a "Morning Person") and I somehow ended up in my brother's giant cargo shorts. Since my brother has wider hips and thighs than me the damn shorts kept slipping off my legs, which I found understandably impractical. So, to remedy this problem, I pilfered dad's wardrobe in search of a belt, but instead I found a pair of suspenders my dad used to wear back in the 70s. I was pretty excited about that for two reasons. One being that suspenders are the ultimate pants holders, so I won't be baring my knickers any time soon. Another being that the suspenders are rainbow patterned, which is, you know, kind of awesome.

My brother, Nelson, is currently in Indonesia on some exchange program, where's he's studying to become an anthropologist or some nerdy bullshit like that. How his shorts ended up in my bedroom remains a mystery, but I guess that's what makes life interesting. Maybe there's some kind of wormhole in the house. I'm open to the idea.

Grabbing a can of Coke out of the fridge, I bump the door closed with my hip. Some say soft drink does not make a nutritious breakfast, but I say it's all a matter of perspective. Sure, it looks bad compared to an apple or whatever. But compared to an ecstasy tablet and a chaser of methylated spirits? My can of Coke's starting to look pretty spiffy.

I lean against the bench, drinking my Coke and watching my parents for a while, before growing bored. It's summer holidays, and to be honest, I haven't done anything productive in a really long time. Mostly, I've been hanging around the house for the past month, watching bad day time television as I stuff mass amounts of food down my throat. I've hung out with my friends a bit, sure, but usually that means we just watch bad day time television and eat together. Which I think is worse, since you have the opportunity to socialise, yet you ignore it and instead revert to a comatose state.

I get my phone out and text Angela, even though I know she won't be awake yet since it's 8am, and she won't want to spend the day with me anyway because she's the type of person who waits for a better offer to come along. She's a bit of an annoying bitch, actually, but we're friends anyway. Mostly because I'm a bit annoying too (though I like to think I'm not much of a bitch) and we bond over our mutual insensitivity. Solid friendship, for sure.

I shove my phone back into the depths of one of Nelson's giant pockets and empty the rest of the Coke down my throat. It burns a bit, what with all those carbonated bubbles, but that's alright. Nothing like a burning throat to thrust your morning into gear, am I right?

I chuck the can into the recycling, since I'm all about the environment and crap, and head toward the front door.

"Later," I call back to my parents. I don't expect a reply, and my expectations are fulfilled. I strut out the door, my thumbs tucked under my suspenders like a swanky bastard.

...

The man across from me is drooling.

I'm not strictly against drooling. That'd be hypocritical of me after all. I mean, I can't even count the number of mornings I've woken up in what I believed to be a swamp, only to realise I've slobbered all over my pillow.

But it's conscious drooling I'm a bit worried about. Drooling whilst awake is just not okay. And this guy, slumped in the seat across from me, is most certainly conscious and most certainly drooling. It's a bit uncomfortable, actually, what with him staring at me with big, droopy eyes, a steady stream of saliva dripping onto the lapel of his trench coat.

I tear my eyes away, instead resolving to look out the window.

In an attempt to break up the tedium, I've decided I'll broaden my circle of activity beyond television and food. A brave choice, in my opinion. So now I'm on the train, catching it nowhere in particular. The fact that the train happens to stop near Randy's house, who's a boy I may or may not want to destroy during a weekend of passion, is pure coincidence. Probably.

But hey, what's a bit of casual stalking in the scheme of things?

You know, maybe I should be a little more concerned. For all I know, this guy's actually having a stroke, causing a loss of control over his facial muscles. By staring at me so intently he may be trying to communicate a plea for help.

I glance over at him from the corner of my eye. Yup. Still drooling.

Well. A little bit of a brain clot never hurt anybody. I'm sure it's harmless.

Just as long as he doesn't sneeze, because that'll send debris everywhere. Freaking catastrophic.

The train chugs into my station, and I'm all too eager to escape the floods. I immediately head for Randy's house, abandoning any pretext of subtly. I'm here to perve. That's all there is, and I'm only a little bit ashamed.

But only a little bit. Mostly I'm thinking about Randy's magnificent calves. He's a runner, did you know?

I live in the outskirts of Manchester, and Randy lives just in the outskirts of the outskirts of Manchester, in this little Milltown on Spinners End. It's pretty quaint out here, with like frigging cobble stone paths and shit. The type of stuff you read about in fairy tales, really. If I was bitter, I'd say it's sickening. The effect's kind of ruined, though, since this area is slowly becoming more industrial. Over the years the houses have grown a bit dilapidated, too. Not an ideal location, but who am I to judge? It's not as if I live in frigging Cheshire or anything. I mean, my apartment's squished between a "special interests" store and a Laundromat. Not too bad, but I'm not in a position to criticise, here.

I trot past a fish and chip shop, and even though it's early, they're open and cooking. The heavy smell of grease pervades the air and I'm all of a sudden really hungry. I squint through the dirty window and see some fat guy with a hairy chest frying a few eggs and a couple strips of bacon. Too bad I squirreled away my last few cents on a train ticket. My stomach gives a rueful gurgle.

Well that's depressing.

Maybe I could try and pry some money out of Randy. I mean, it'll give me a good excuse to initiate contact. But that particular plan has a few noticeable drawbacks. How would I even go about asking him, anyway? Knock on his door, and then awkwardly explain that I know where he lives because I looked up his address in the phone book when I was feeling particularly desperate one Friday night? Fat chance.

I walk on, feeling a bit put out. I should have grabbed a bag of chips on my way out this morning. Or at the very least a donut.

Then I'm struck with an idea.

I inspect my surroundings, on the lookout for an appropriate target.

Not too far from the fish and chip shop, I stumble across some substandard ramshackle. Small yard with a few sad patches of grass, blackened windows, a chimney determined to stand despite it's trembling integrity. It appears that nobody's home, too. Or they're at least asleep.

Perfect.

I glance around over my shoulder, ensuring I have no witnesses, before hopping over the feeble brick fence and scampering across the yard. I slide around the side of the house, squishing myself between the wall and the wonky picket fence. I edge along until I find an accessible window. Bracing myself, I push up on the wooden panel. Nothing happens for a few moments (I blame this on my lacking muscle mass) before the glass shoots up with a very distinct _SCREECH_. Fuck.

I hesitate, listening for any disturbances, but I eventually decide I'm in the clear. With this encouraging thought, I clumsily hoist myself up through the window and into a dark room.

Alright. So I'm kind of breaking the law. But it's not that big a deal. I'm just going to scout around for a few spare coins, maybe grab a glass of water (I _am_ a bit thirsty, when I think about it) then leave. Like it never happened at all.

Okay, okay. My morals are a bit askew. Dad always says my priorities are a little on the wobbly side. I've never committed any serious crimes, though. Like, I've never murdered anybody, or, like, stolen a cat or something. I've just nicked a few things here and there. Harmless.

I'm like your regular Robin Hood. Sort of.

Not really.

I chose this particular house for a reason, though. It's old, and older houses are generally easier to infiltrate. The windows don't have those damn latches on them, and security is usually lacking. I probably could've done the old credit card through the door frame technique, since the door wouldn't have that protruding piece of wood most doors have these days, but I wanted a little more privacy. I'm not in the mood for getting arrested, you know. Sounds like a bit of a drag.

My eyes haven't adjusted yet, and I squint to better acquaint myself with my surroundings. Gees. Whoever owns this house should seriously consider some mood lighting or something. It's pretty dreary around here, actually. Sort of depressing.

Everything appears to be in shades of grey, and although it's mostly clean, the room has an unlived feel about it. Maybe I chose incorrectly. Maybe nobody lives here at all. And then what are my chances of finding some cash? Pretty slim, I'd say, considering squatters have probably scoured the places over. Well, bollocks.

I guess I'm here already, though. Might as well take a gander.

It's not especially large, in here. Kind of claustrophobic, if I really think about it, in the sense that I feel a bit trapped. Like a padded cell, or something of equal discomfort. I edge across the wooden floorboards, toward the closest wall. They're all covered in old leather bound books, right up to the ceiling. A bit intimidating, if I'm honest. Reminds me of, I don't know, Dracula's castle maybe. Like a lair, where evil deeds are concocted. Creepy.

Aw, man. I need to stop thinking like that. I'm freaking myself out.

Shaking the apprehension out of my limbs, I nosily slip one of the books off the shelf and inspect the cover. _Moste Potente Potions_. The edges of the pages are brown and crusty and I think I can smell mould. What is this, some weirdo antique? I curiously flip open to a random page and find hand written recipes scrawled in an intricate script. There're even illustrations. There's a spider and a mermaid and…holy shit is that guy eating his own _face?_ What kind of book _is_ this?

Wrinkling my nose up, I snap the book shut and shove it back onto the bookshelf. This is some Dungeons and Dragons bullshit. Probably some nerd lives here. Or a psychopath, but I'm going to remain optimistic.

I step away from the wall and observe the rest of the room. If I had to label it, I'd probably call it a living room or something. Except there isn't a television, or at the very least a radio. There is, however, a shitty little sofa and a lumpy grey armchair, separated by a rickety coffee table which holds a deformed candle and a cordless pink hair dryer. The pink hair dryer is an obvious anomaly, and so I'm understandably intrigued.

I walk over and snatch it up, looking over its every surface. Huh. I guess nerds practice hair maintenance, too. That's interesting, I guess.

I suppose it's battery operated, since it doesn't have a chord. I start pushing at its every button, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does. Until…

"Oi, watch it, handsy!"

"…The hell?" I grunt, frowning. Who just spoke? My heart trembles in my chest momentarily, because maybe I've been found out and maybe the nerd's standing right behind me, getting ready to call the cops or maybe impale me with a light sabre or something. A quick glance around the room tells me I'm still alone. Probably I imagined it...I guess.

With a little added unease, I continue nudging the buttons.

"I said watch it!" says the hair dryer.

_Says the hair dryer_.

What…the fuck. The grate at the opening of the hair dryer rearranges itself into an orifice, moving with every word. Like a mouth. The hair dryer…has a mouth.

"I'm…sorry?" I respond, wincing a bit.

"Save it, kid. Just don't be fondling my equipment without my permission," the hair dryer says sullenly.

"Right… I'll – I'll do that," I say slowly. Okay. So it's like a novelty hair dryer, or something. Like a gimmick. A toy. They're pretty common. Probably.

"Just leave me alone, alright? I need my damn sleep, too, you know," the hair dryer adds.

I slowly place the hair dryer back on the table and back away.

"Of course, of course!" I say like a total kiss ass. The hair dryer says nothing, which is probably a good thing because no news is good news after all.

That was weird. Kind of cool, too, though.

Now, to find a couple bucks, and then I'll be on my merry way.

There's a window that faces the street, which is thankfully swathed in ugly fabric (ensuring my concealment), and there's a mahogany cabinet placed in front of it. I figure that's a good a place as any to start my search, so I pull out the draws and start rifling through them. I find some pretty weird shit, like a glass eyeball and a snake skin, but no money. Well, real money anyway. I mean, I found some gold coins with like dragons on them that say "Gringotts", but it's like no money I've ever seen before. They're pretty shiny, though. And heavy. Maybe they do have some worth.

I slip a few into my back pack for future enquiries. Maybe I could sell them off to Mrs Hampton, who lives above the Laundromat next door. She has a pretty hardcore coin collection – she loves this kind of junk.

After I've rummaged through every draw, I step back and huff a bit. This is the weirdest house I've ever robbed – the weirdest house I've ever entered, even. Man, I'm hungry. I could really go for some bacon strips. Where's the freaking money?

I turn to hunt through the rest of the room, when I spot a new addition. A living addition. A human being. A person. A pissed off person.

I think I'm going to vomit up my heart.

Standing in the doorway, shrouded in a convenient shadow to add unnecessary mystery, is a man dressed in black. I'm talking a lot of black. Black slacks, black shirt, black waistcoat, a frigging black _cape_. It creates an obvious contrast with his pallid skin tone, which is pasty and white. Sickly, even. I'd recommend Vitamin D, personally.

To carry on the theme, two sweeping curtains of greasy black hair cup his cheeks, outperformed only by an unfortunately large and hooked nose. Although somewhat ridiculous, his presence is still unnerving and undeniably demanding. Especially since his unblinking eyes are staring at me as though I've taken a dump on his favourite black cape.

Most unusually, though, is the wooden stick he's pointing right at my throat. Should I be, like, concerned? Is he going to, I don't know, stab me in the jugular or something? Which would probably hurt, but would it be lethal? I mean…it's a stick.

I try smiling, but I'm certain I don't succeed. To be completely honest, I'm kind of freaking out. Like, a lot. I've never been caught in the act before, and I think I might be having a heart attack – which is a seriously viable possibility because it's pumping so hard up against my bones that I think I've cracked a rib.

"Uh…" I croak. I don't know where I'm going with this. Maybe I could just…slither away.

He cocks a very menacing eyebrow. He's definitely not the nerd I was envisioning. I'm going to die. I'm going to _die_.

"And what are _you_ doing in my house?" he asks, his voice velvety and foreboding.

"Good question… I uh, was just wondering… Could – um, could I borrow a fiver? I'd totally pay you back…ha ha…" I adjust my collar and shift my feet. I need to get out of here.

There's not much of a change in his actual expression, but I can instantly tell I've said the wrong thing and now he looks set to kill me. Bloody hell.

"I just – I just –" I start panicking, and then I feel the familiar tingling in my nose. Oh no. Not this again. I take a sharp withdrawal of breath and pause for a second or two. Then I let out an almighty sneeze, no doubt spraying mucus all about the place. Most bizarrely, though, is the fact that as I sneeze a handful of golden sparkles surge out of my nostrils, hanging in the air before dispersing all about my immediate perimeter.

You'll be surprised to learn that this happens a lot.

It first started when I was about 13. One Sunday afternoon, as I was slumped on the couch watching Doctor Phil, I got this really weird feeling in my chest. Kind of like my heart was vibrating, or some bullshit. To be honest, I thought I was having a stroke. Then it, like, travelled up my throat and into my nose, and my eyes started watering, and my nostrils were really itchy, and then I sneezed. But this wasn't your average, run of the mill sneeze – this was some serious shit, you understand? I felt like I'd sneezed my brain onto my lap. But no. I didn't sneeze my brain out of my face, I sneezed golden, misty sparkles all over my lounge room.

I was concerned, you know? Understandable, I say. So I went and told my parents, and I had a couple of MRIs and CAT scans and whatever, but no conclusion was found. I just…sneezed sparkles on occasion. Pretty screwed up, in my opinion.

It hasn't ever been as intense as the first time – these days it's just like your standard sneeze. But the regularity has increased over the years; what first started as a sparkly sneeze once a month has turned into a sparkly sneeze once a day. It's pretty hard to explain to people. Usually I just ignore it, and that makes people feel awkward enough not to mention it. If I have to say something, though, I just confess a glitter addiction. Similar to crack, but less dangerous.

It's silent as we watch the sparkles settle onto the floor. I'm pretty reluctant to look at his face, because I might see a desire to stab in his eye and then he'll assault my jugular with his fancy looking stick. I do, though – look at his face, I mean – and he's got this really unusual expression on his face. Staggered, if I had to put a name to it. Reasonable, I suppose. The thief in his home just snorted glitter all over his living room floor.

I clear my throat and shuffle my feet again, "So… I'm gonna, like, head out, now…" I jut my thumb over my shoulder, "It was cool meeting you…uh, yeah. G'bye!" I start backing up, away from my potential attacker and toward the window.

"Stop." He commands.

I stop.

_Why_ have I stopped?

His mouth slithers open and oh my goodness I really _don't_ want to know what he's got to say to me. I give a kind of wince and I can practically hear his inhalation of breath and then –

And then somebody knocks on the front door.

He hesitates then frowns then kind of stiffens his back and takes a peek over his shoulder. I continue backing away very _sloooowly_.

He looks back at me and I give a very weak grin. The kind I hope communicates how much of a threat I'm _not_.

"You need to leave." He says, his voice a heavy monotone, "Right now. But I'll find you. We need to have a little _chat_." He sizes me up a moment before disappearing out the door, his cape flaring out dramatically behind him.

Yeah, right. Like I'd actually stick around. The dude's crazy – he's going to _find_ me? I don't know whether I should feel threatened, but I know one thing for sure. I'm ditching this parade.

I fling myself out the window and take off down the street. I glance behind me only once and catch a glimpse of two women – one hooded figure and another with thick, shiny black hair. Probably his Role Playing pals.


End file.
